I will burn the heart out of you
by Lin Arwen
Summary: Moriarty always called Sherlock Holmes "The virgin" and decide to take matters into his own hands. Contain mentions of male on male rape and maybe suicide attempt in later chapters.   NOT a John/Sherlock slash-fic, just a very strong friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**I will burn the heart out of you**

**Moriarty always called Sherlock Holmes "The virgin" and decide to take matters into his own hands. Contain mentions of male on male rape and maybe suicide attempt in later chapters. **

**NOT a John/Sherlock slash-fic, just a very strong friendship.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor anything that come from BBC**

**English is my third-language, so please excuse some (hopefully) minor errors. **

**PLEASE REVIEW**

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><p>Sherlock Holmes was a very private man. He did not like to be touched, nor did he like to touch others. He followed society's expectation to handshake when meeting new people and tolerated the occasional slap on the back after he had solved a difficult case, but in general he avoided physical contact.<p>

It was just the way he was brought up. The Holmes's didn't show affection by touching. As Mycroft once said, while observing a grieving couple at the morgue, "caring is not an advantage, Sherlock".

Sherlock had found it difficult, when as a small child he had tried to curl up against his parents or hugged them in affection, only to receive an occasional stroke on the head in return. It was not that his parents did not care about Sherlock and Mycroft, touching was just not their way.

His hugs and kisses became less and less frequent, and now, as an adult, he didn't even consider touching anyone to show them that he cared about them, or to comfort them. Not that he had a phobia, he just didn't see the need for unnecessary touching.

It was not only his upbringing, of course. In his kind of work he had to stay distant of human emotions as good as possible. He had seen too many people in the police force making mistakes because they cared, really personally cared, about the victim they tried to rescue, resulting in errors that could have been avoided. Errors or mistakes were not an option for Sherlock, so he shut down as good as possible. Letting his intellect rule his personality he quickly earned the nicknames "The Robot", " The Freak" and" The Psychopath". He remember arriving at a crime-scene once and Donovan going "Brrr, it got so cold in here. Oh, never mind, it's just Sherlock entering".

Well, when you can't make people's impression of you go away, you just have to embrace it and make it part of who you are So as the years went by, Sherlock took pride in seeing the details on and around the victims, but not the victim itself.

And of course, as John once put it ;" he was also just an arrogant prick without manners".

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><p>The morning had started normal enough, or as normal you would call the life they led at 221B Baker Street.<p>

John had just stormed off in disgust after opening the fridge and finding an eyeball neatly put on top of his dinner-leftover-saved-for-breakfast.

Sherlock had tried to explain that John's spaghetti Bolognese had the perfect level of moisture to keep the eyeball fresh, yet not damaging the aqueous humour, but John had grabbed his coat, claiming he "needed some air".

"Oh, come on, John", Sherlock had shouted from his perch in the brown leather chair, "it was not even a human eye; it came from a _cow _this time!"

Hearing the slam of the front door, Sherlock sighted, slid down the chair so that his long legs rested on the seat of the neighboring chair and grabbed the nearest newspaper.

After becoming an "internet phenomenon" (Lestrade's words), that damned picture of him in that _hat_ popped up everywhere. Sherlock himself hated all the attention he got from the tabloid press, but Mrs. Hudson, thrilled that "her boys were famous", happily bought them every paper that featured him and John.

Today, bright red letters welcomed him; " LOVER'S SPAT BETWEEN FRICK AND FRACK?", featuring a picture of a seemingly scowling John stalking off a crime scene, while himself and a slightly bemused Lestrade watching him go.

Sherlock groaned and slid deeper into the chair. He remembered that case, several dog-walkers had been found dead and John had simply hurried home to get his allergy tablets (being terribly allergic to canine fur), and the photographer had just gotten a picture of John's "I am in a hurry"-face.

As Sherlock had said to John on their second day of knowing each other, he considered himself married to his work. He had never wanted a romantic relationship or children, and was happy with his little family consisting of John, Mrs. Hudson and sometimes Mycroft (mostly when he needed to "borrow" Mycroft's identity). Apart from Irene Adler, which he admired for her drive and intelligence, he never even looked at a woman twice (not needing to, a single glance was all it took to read their life story anyway), but that did _not_ mean that he was attracted to men, nor that he was in a physical relationship with his flat-mate.

Tossing aside the newspaper, he got on his feet and crossed the room. Peering into the fridge, he was pleased with the consistency of the cow eye, still staring out from John's leftover-dinner. What Sherlock was less pleased with, was that they were out of milk. He thought he had at least one carton of milk yesterday, brought by John or Mrs. Hudson. Oh, no wait, he had used it to store a jawbone from a victim that had been found yesterday. Making a mental note to remove the milk from the fridge before John had another fit, he pulled on his coat, scarf and made his way down the stairs.

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><p><em>Left handed, slightly asthmatic, student in…history, a tea drinker, living with two females and one small child and is getting used to new contact lenses. Non-smoker.<em>

"One Espresso Macchiato without sugar, extra black" . The woman in front of the coffee shop called, reading the name scribbled across the paper cup. " For… Sherlock, innit? That's a funny name, never 'eard anyone else bein' called Sherlock. Hang on", she said, peering at him from behind the counter", you're the bloke from that blog, yeah?"

Sherlock managed a tight smile, accepting his coffee-to-go and made his way hastily out of the door. He had planned to sit in the coffee shop for a bit, but he sure as shit wasn't going to do that now. If he had, it would just be a matter of time before he had people swarming about him, telling him about "cases" you had to be blind as a bat not to see the answer to.

"Damn you, John. And damn your blog", he muttered, taking small sips of coffee. Suddenly the light seemed a lot brighter than it had two minutes ago, and he felt a sudden pressure somewhere behind his eyes. Feeling the familiar feeling of something forcing itself up from his stomach, he staggered in to the nearest back alley. Dry heaving and leaning with his hands on the rough concrete walls, the light became brighter and brighter until Sherlock felt like his head would explode by the pressure. Then everything went dark.

"_Wakey wakey, pretty boy"_

"_I think he's still out cold, sir"_

"_What, sleeping away while we are all anxious to greet him. And on his birthday, of all days. This will just not do."_

"_Do you want me to wake him up, sir?"_

"_Well, I don't want him to sleep through our surprise, now do I, what is the fun in that?"_

Slap!

"_Do it again"._

**Slap!**

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the unfamiliar light. Shutting them with a groan, he heard snickering from somewhere on his left. His pulse going a bit quicker, he had to remind himself that this was not the first time he had woken up in an unfamiliar place. He just had to stay calm and not let himself be intimidated, and everything would be fine.

Eyes firmly shut against the slight light, he tried to feel his surroundings. He was standing upright. His left arm was bound against something hard, maybe a board. Concentrating on his right hand, he confirmed it was the same with that one. Both his legs were trapped to the same board, making him feel like a fully clad Vitruvian man. No sound of traffic, they must be quite a distance from the city. He heard dripping in the distance, making echoes as the drops hit the floor. An empty warehouse?

"_Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. When you sleep in the afternoon, you can't expect getting to sleep at night. __**Now open your eyes and **_**look at me!"**

Forcing his eyes open, his focus taking some time to settle, until it landed on a very smiling Jim Moriarty.

"Well, hello, Sherlock."

Trying to look bored, Sherlock answered "Hello, Jim. Fancy meeting you here".

Looking delighted, Moriarty rubbed his hands together. There were a small gathering of elegant clad men in the background, watching them.

"You know me, always where you don't expect me to be. Well, I have read in the papers these last few days that it's just not working out between you and the good doctor, and me and the boys just wanted to cheer you up, this being your birthday and all".

Frowning in confusion, Sherlock asked "My birthday?"

"Yeah" Moriarty said gleefully, as he signaled to the other men to come closer. "Haven't you heard?"

Leaning so close to his ear that Sherlock could feel the warmth of his breath, Moriarty whispered " This is the day where I burn the heart out of you".

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><p><strong>Whew, that was the first chapter. <strong>

**Please review, and feel free to include ideas or wishes, if it's something specific you would want to happen next.**

**Ta!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Thank you all for all the positive attention to this story! I posted the first chapter, went to sleep and in the morning found my inbox full of reviews or story-notices. **

**Sorry this chapter is so short, it just seemed fitting having an entire chapter just for the abuse. John's coming home in the next chapter, so we'll see what happens then.**

**Please, tell your friends and KEEP REVIEWING.**

**Disclaimer: I am neither Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, nor Steven Moffat and co. Damn!**

Jets of water streamed down Sherlock's feet. Wincing slightly, he bent down to pull the switch, so that the water came out of the shower head instead of being in bathtub-mode.

"_Hold him down"_

"_He's struggling too much, sir, shall we just bind him to the board again?"_

"_You are five mature men, surely you don't think that you can't restrain one half-drugged man?"_

_Slap!_

Reaching blindly for the shampoo, soap, anything, Sherlock popped open the lid with his thumb and pored it directly over his head, scrubbing with his fingernails.

"_Pretty boy, remember me? You gave me 6 months in jail for that business scam"_

"_Wha' , only 6 months? This one 'ere got me 3 years in t'slammer! Oi, lover boy, wanna know wha' I learned while bein' there?_

"_Tsk, tsk, tsk, Sherlock. It would seem like you have attracted quite a few enemies over the years. Even some powerful enemies, I must say. Lucky for me, I knew just who would be willing to pay me quite a sum of money for this little party with you. Who knows, you might even like it. Then again, you don't have anything to compare it with, do you now? Mr. Holmes, the most famous virgin of all in London. Shame to lose that title, really…oh well."_

The water starting to get cold, Sherlock turned the thermostat further up the red mark. Scrubbing, scrubbing, never stop, cannot stop.

"_Just a moment, lads, let me check my little list here. Mr. Johnson, it would seem that you were the highest bidder. That gives you the honor of starting this little party. How would you like him?"_

Bottle empty, he reached for the next one, never opening his eyes. Everything must be clean; scrubbing scalp, feet, toes, back, chest, even all the little folds in the ear. Even though the thermostat is on max, the jets of water are slowly getting cold, but it doesn't matter. He _must_ get clean.

" _My, he's quite a squealer, isn't he? I thought he wasn't enjoying himself at first, with all that teeth clenching and trashing about, but now he's really starting to get warmed up"._

"_Well, hurry up then, there are still two in line. We don't want him to be all used up when it's our turn"._

"_Nah, he's just enjoying himself, aren't you, chap? Maybe that's what he's needed all this time, a nice little fuck. Maybe he wouldn't have been such a pain in the ass then"._

"_I think he will have a bigger pain in the ass now, don't you think?"_

"_Hurry up instead of making stupid puns"._

"_Calm down, gentlemen. He's not going anywhere soon, you will get your turn. Those who paid most get his share first, that was always the deal"._

Soap's gone, shampoo's gone and warm water gone, Sherlock starts sliding down into the bathtub, but thinks better of it. Grasping the edge of the bathtub, clenching his teeth together, he slowly makes his way over the rim of the tub. Grabbing his towel with the intention of drying himself off, he changes his mind. He used this towel while showering this morning, he can't re-use. Not now. Avoiding the mirror, he opens the bathroom cabinet and pulls out the first towel he reaches, making the rest of them land in a pile on the tiles.

"_Did you like our little present, Sherlock? I must say, you really do have a gift to make people want to get back at you. And this is my next little surprise for you; there are a lot more people out there wanting to get their revenge on you. Luckily for me, I know just what will break you now. So back off! Don't interfere, don't take any more off your little cases and don't help the police anymore! Maybe the good doctor or Lestrade or all your other little friends will stay just because of your charming self, even without your "fame", but we'll see. And if you don't back off, we can always arrange a little party for your flat mate. Maybe he will enjoy himself just as much as you did. So. Do .Not. Interfere._

Unable to take it any longer, unable to stay strong a moment more, Sherlock Holmes put the towel to his mouth and screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**I humbly thank all the readers who have reviewed, put this story on "story alerts" or "author alerts", but more reviews are always welcomed!**

**To those who have asked: No, Sherlock and John will not enter a relationship, at least not in this story. I do believe that they love each other more than anything, but as brothers or best friends, not as lovers. I'm into Holmes/Watson love stories as much as the next person, but wanted to take a different approach here. **

**I will also not re-rate the story to an M. I have read a lot of M-rated stories, and they are all on a whole other level of sexual graphicness than this fairly innocent story. But luckily, the attack is vaguely described in a single chapter, so those who don't want to read it, but want to read the rest, can skip chapter 2.**

**Disclaimer: The world is my stage, but Sherlock Holmes belongs to someone else. Happy easter.**

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><p>"I swear to God, Sherlock, if I open the fridge or pantry or shelves..or..or anywhere else in this apartment and find any more body parts, I will seriously be contemplating putting your own head in there. It doesn't matter if the body parts are from a cow or a human or a friggin'orangutang, it's still disgusting".<p>

John Watson hovered at the threshold leading into their apartment, but couldn't see his flat-mate anywhere.

"Sherlock? You there?"

Gingerly stepping into the room, John had his eyes peeled for anything unusual (well, more unusual than usual). Last time he had come home with an open door, but no Sherlock, he had instead found a Russian fisherman with a very mean right hook. No pun intended.

John's eyes swept over the room. The chairs and sofa were at their usual place, windows were closed. The papers who Mrs. Hudson had lovingly brought them still made a small pile on the desk, with one placed, (or rather, thrown) at the end of the room, near the kitchen. John picked it up. "Lover's spat between Frick and Frack?" he murmured. At least the reporters have found a picture without the hat this time. After Anderson and Donovan had read the first tabloid article where Sherlock and himself exited the theatre with the bloody hats on, entitled "Hatman and Robin", they hadn't been fit to work with, resulting in an even more obnoxious Sherlock.

"Hello, Sherlock? Are you alive somewhere? What, are you _kidding_ me? Is that bloody eye _still sitting in the fridge?_ I don't care if it's an experiment to cure cancer or whatever, I'm throwing it out!"

"No need" a voice from behind him said.

John whirled around, but relaxed when he saw Sherlock standing there, arms around his slender frame.

"When did you learn to walk that quiet? Usually you announce to the world that the great Sherlock Holmes has arrived."

John frowned when Sherlock didn't make his usual indignant face. Instead he took the offended spaghetti out of the fridge, opened the bin and dumped the whole thing inside, plate and all.

"What, I thought this case with the eye was so important?"

Sherlock didn't reply, only turned stiffly and made his way over to the sofa. Standing in front of it for three seconds, he picked up his violin and instead walked over to the window.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John cautiously asked. He did not like this quiet Sherlock. True enough, Sherlock had warned him on their first meeting that sometimes he didn't speak for several days on end, but usually it was trickier to get him to shut up.

John eyed his flat-mate critically. He didn't play his violin, just holding it and staring out of the window. He wore different clothes than those he had worn that morning ,that was odd. Maybe he had had a case and got his clothes dirty or destroyed, ( hardly the first time) but why didn't Sherlock text him if he had gotten a case?

There was also something off in the way he held himself. He was favoring his left foot, like it hurt to stand. But if so, why did he change his mind about sitting down on the sofa? There was also a strange smell about him. John sniffed the air, trying to be inconspicuous. Was it antiseptic? John had both a bottle and antiseptic swabs in his emergency kit in his room. Had Sherlock gotten hurt somehow and cleaned the wound?

Sighting, he wished he had Sherlock's gift of deduction. If so, he didn't have to wonder what had happened, he would know.

Still staring out of the window, Sherlock gingerly lifted his arm and scratched his hairline near the ear. Something caught John's attention.

"Sherlock, let me see your hand".

Walking over, he reached out his arm and grabbed Sherlock's right hand. Tearing his arm out of John's grasp, Sherlock jumped back, a look in his face John hadn't seen since Baskerville.

"Don't touch me!"

Standing where he was, slightly startled by this reaction, John asked "Why are your fingernails bloody? Have you hurt yourself? Or scratched at something with your nails?"

Balling up his fists and putting them in his trouser pockets, Sherlock scowled and looked at something over Johns shoulder. "None of your business."

Slightly irritated now, John replied " Yeah, why should I care? I am just your best friend _and_ a trained doctor".

" I don't need any friends! You are always here, interfering with everything! Blogging and clinging to me like a sad little puppy! I don't want you here, I don't _need_ you here! So why don't you just _go away!_"

Startled by this sudden attack, John's eyes narrowed. "Let me see your arms!"

Not replying, Sherlock turned and started to go towards his room.

"Damn it, Sherlock, let me see your arms! What was it this time? Heroin? Cocaine? You were

doing so well, _why _did you start again?"

" I haven't taken any drugs, not as if you had really cared if I did! All you care about is blogging about _my_ work, thriving in your _fame"_

"Then prove it, show me your arms!"

John quickly caught up with Sherlock, who was limping towards his room. In seeing John so close, he got a frantic look in his face.

"Leave me alone!"

"There is no reason you should act like this if you wasn't under some kind of narcotics. Please, I just want to help you".

Grabbing hold of Sherlock, he pulled him to the floor, pinned him down with his knees and pulled one of his shirt arms up to below the elbow.

"No, don't, _please!"_

John felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. He had had to overpower Sherlock before, when he had been under the influence of something, but never before had he seen the look of terror in his friend's face, nor heard the whimpering pleading tone he used. John remembered Sherlock telling Irene Adler that "he had never begged for anything in his life". And he never had, until now. And instead of the expected needle marks, Sherlock had a thin bruise-line around his wrist, like he had been bound to something.

Letting go and crawling back, John eyed Sherlock. The latter had scampered into a corner by his bedroom door.

"Sherlock, I am so, _so_ sorry. I just thought…I mean, last time you acted like this, you actually _had_ used…what have happened?"

Not looking at John, Sherlock rose, using the wall to steady himself and disappearing quietly into the bedroom.

Rubbing his eyes, John made his way into the living room and dropped down into the sofa. A vibration from his back pocket signaled that he had gotten a text. Scrolling down, he saw a picture he couldn't quite figure out. He turned his phone upside down, trying to see it from a different direction.

When he saw what the blurry picture showed, he felt the world stop.

"Oh my God".

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><p><strong>Sherlock's secret is out, what will happen now? What will John do?<strong>

**I know that being a doctor, John's "manhandling" of Sherlock wasn't the most professional, but it added more dramatic, so sue me.**

**PLEASE REVIEW! (I want to know my audience ;0P )**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Wow, this is really turning into an intensive Easter holiday. I was supposed to write a one shot, which turned out to be a little longer. Chapter 4 is now coming out and I cannot really see an end yet. **

**That's the beauty of , as a writer you really are in contact with your readers, since you add chapters, get reviews and stuff, then get the drive from that to write more chapters. I thank you all for inspiring me!**

**Disclaimer: If I was producing BBC's "Sherlock", I would get off my ass and produce more episodes before 2013. Since it is not, it is implied I am not Steven Moffat (Nor the good Mr. Conan Doyle).**

**I also have a thing against cream-filled biscuits.**

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><p>John Watson sat on the sofa, staring into the kitchen but not really seeing anything. He could hear in the hallway downstairs, probably coming home from buying groceries.<p>

He hoped that she didn't come upstairs. Despite all her claims that "she was not their housekeeper", she loved bringing them little treats, like biscuits filled with various fruit-flavoured cream. They had a box of orange-flavoured ones standing on a shelf for weeks until Sherlock had started offering it to clients.

He could hear her shuffling across the hall and the small thud of her door closing. Breathing out, he lowered himself back into the softness of the sofa. Pretending to Mrs. Hudson that everything was fine was not what he needed right now.

He stared down at his hand, still grasping his phone. The screen was black. His first impulse when he had seen that picture was to delete it. He actually had his thumb against the delete-button when he thought that maybe it was the only evidence they had for…what obviously had happened. If it ended in a court trial, though he doubted Sherlock would ever allow that. But that did not mean that he had to look at it further. The search for the number came out blank, but it did not matter. He would recognize the man smiling and pointing at the camera anywhere. Moriarty.

John hoped by God that his was the only phone that picture found its way to, but he wouldn't count on it. Moriarty was the kind of man who kicked you until you lay on the ground, then came back and kicked you some more.

John turned and eyed the shut door to Sherlock's bedroom. Since John had tackled him to the ground, mistakenly accused him for being on drugs, the door had remained shut and nothing had moved inside.

Making his way over to the door, John pressed his ear against it. He couldn't make anything out, but maybe Sherlock was sleeping. At least he knew he was still in there, there was no way he could have walked out and John not noticing.

"Sherlock?" There was no answer from inside.

"Sherlock, can I come in, please?"

The pain he had had in his stomach since being sent that picture intensifying, John tried the door. At least it was not locked.

"Sherlock, I am coming in, alright?"

Slowly opening the door, he peered in. He couldn't see his flat-mate anywhere, at least not from that angle. Very slowly, as to not startle him (shamefully thinking about when he just wrestled him to the ground after what he had endured) he made his way into the room, moving along the walls. Hearing something shifting in the corner, John turned towards it and thought his heart might shatter by it.

Sherlock sat on the floor between his bed and the wall, his knees pulled up against his chest. His hands were gripping a pillow from his bed and when he looked at him, John saw a look he had never seen on his friend's face before. Humiliation and shame. It was only there a moment, so quick that John was not quite sure it had ever been there at all.

When he saw John looking at him, Sherlock turned his head, looking at the opposite wall with a stony expression.

Careful not to approach him too quick, John sat down on the floor near the foot end of the bed, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

"Sherlock…I…"

"It does not matter."

" But I should never have accused you for being on drugs, restraining you like that after…what had happe…wait. How can you know I know…. what I …know..?

Feeling awkward, not wanting to say the word "rape" out loud, nor pretend he did not know and have Sherlock tell him, he left the sentence hanging in the air.

Sherlock smiled humourlessly and waved his phone. "Got the same picture as you, I suppose. I must say, if Moriarty had sent a picture every time he did a crime, it might be easier to catch him."

"Sherlock, what happened to you is _not_ right! And I swear to you, we _will_ find Moriarty and the men who did this!"

"What, Lestrade and his lot? Hardly." he snorted, sounding like his usual self.

Looking at Sherlock, John wondered if he was still in shock or actual did not care about what had happened. He always said he was able to distance himself from feelings, but surely this experience should have some impact?

"Okay, but I want you to know that I am always here for you. And that this was not your fault. It is okay to show some feelings sometimes, you know. To let it all out".

Rising, Sherlock looked down at his friend. "Please, John. Next it will be Mycroft calling, asking to sit by my bed site and read me a story. I can manage fine on my own".

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><p>And he did. For several days Sherlock slept, shouted at the telly, cluttered their flat with more dubious experiments and even ate some food from time to time. He had brushed Lestrade off when he called, claiming he was too busy to help them out, but that was not so unusual either.<p>

John started to think that maybe the picture looked more dramatic than what had actually happened or that Sherlock actually did not think so much of it, when he heard glass shatter in the kitchen, followed by a choice of swearwords that would make a sailor blush.

"Sherlock, the window is open, next we'll have Mrs. Hudson up here complaining again."

Sherlock rounded on John, his safety goggles pushed up to the top of his head, brandishing a sheet of blank paper and a bent tea spoon.

"What? If I don't keep my voice down, and talk polite and behave _fucking_ correct, I will get in trouble? I am not a damn schoolboy, _John_, I am a grown man, in case you haven't noticed! Oh, it must be wonderful to have an ordinary brain like yours, but mine is _rotting_, you get that? My mind is _rotting_ staying cooped up in this fucking apartment all the time!"

Breathing heavily, Sherlock grabbed the nearest tea cup and threw it at the wall.

"And this is _your_ fault, John! Before, everything that happened, happened only to me! Nobody had anything to blackmail me with, because it did not work! But now I have you, and _it has made me vulnerable,_ you get that? If I had never met you, I would be fine, but if I take another case now, they will rape you! So I am stuck here forever, rotting my brain. Does your fucking ordinary brain understand what I'm saying? _They will _fucking_ rape you!"_

Staring at his friend, John felt numbness creeping over him. _They will take me too. If Sherlock takes on another case. To protect me, he must stay unhappy all his life. _That was the true purpose of the attack. Not only to humiliate Sherlock, a man who all of London knew did not like to be touched, but to demonstrate what would happen to his best friend if he continued ruining Moriarty's work. So to ensure John's safety, Sherlock would have to be ordinary.

Never take on another case. Never use his hard-earned skills. Never feel any pride anymore. And in the end, it would kill him.

Never had John understood the meaning behind Moriarty's threat at the pool."I will burn the heart out of you". To protect the only person who mattered to him, Sherlock would have to give up his own life.

Crossing the floor, grim determination in his face, John did the only thing he could think of. He flung his arms around his best friend, who was still clutching the paper and tea spoon, safety goggles askew on top of his head.

Standing still at first, John felt Sherlock go limp in his arms. The paper and spoon fell on the floor and hesitant arms gripped around John's back. Being the shorter man, John reached up and pulled Sherlock's head down towards his shoulder. He could feel the other man shaking.

"I am not afraid. I swore to you that we would get these bastards who did this. I will not let you give up everything you love, just to protect me. No! Don't speak, I am not done yet. I love you, you are my best friend, and in your own weird way I know that you love me too. And it goes both ways. I refuse you to give up just to keep me safe. You understand? You are the strongest man I know, be strong for me. We can do this."

John felt Sherlock hands tightening around his back and sensed a shudder go through his friend. Then the tears came. Slowly at first, then, like a damn that burst, great heaving sobs racking his tall frame. John added his own tears, pressing his face into the shirt front of his friend.

Rocking back and forth on the kitchen floor, amidst tea cups, scribbled papers, shattered glass and several empty take-out boxes, the two friends clutched at each others, preparing themselves for what might come.

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><p><strong>What will happen next? I don't know, so if you have any ideas or request, my inbox or review box are always open.<strong>

**I will now search for my Easter egg, "cleverly" hidden by my husband somewhere in our apartment. **

**Happy Easter to you all!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**I humbly and deeply apologize for the delay in adding new chapters. All my job(s) get in the way and April was cah-rrrrazey in terms of working. **

**I will try to add more chapters, maybe they will be shorter (but more frequent). Is that an acceptable deal to you all?**

**This time: Big brother enters the scene! And with big brother, I mean Mycroft, not the reality show. Sherlock told John in episode 01 that Mycroft "was the most dangerous man he would ever meet". Let's see Mycroft in revenge brother-mode!**

**Disclaimer: I am not Conan Doyle or . Wrong age, wrong gender and wrong country.**

**PLEASE REVIEW**

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><p>With two steaming mugs of tea in front of them (by courtesy of John), the two flat-mates lowered themselves into their customary leather chairs. John ; leaning forward, blowing on his Earl Grey, Sherlock ; clutching his favourite mug (a white one with a chipped point in it and the letters " Hannigans Glass and Windows" emblazed across it) and staring down at his socks. There was a hole in the left one and Sherlock's big toe was peeking out. And if John was not mistaken, it was actually <span>his<span> socks.

"So..." John tried.

"I suppose you want to know what I am going to do now. And, as you probably expected, I will not go to the police"

"Come on, Sherlock, I am sure they will understand..."

"Yes, I am quite sure they will _all_ understand."Sherlock interrupted, meeting John's eyes for the first time since they sat down. " All of them, Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Molly, the _damn_ tabloid press. You said despite...despite the threat..., you wanted me to continue my work. How do you expect me to do that with half of London laughing at me and the rest of them looking at me with pity?"

John drew a breath, thinking of arguments to prove Sherlock wrong, but as always, his flat-mate was right. Sherlock relied very much on his pride, he and John even had a deal that he should not write anything too personal on his blog (even though their opinions of what "personal" meant was not always on the same page). To arrive at a case and know that Donovan and Anderson had read his detailed police report would be more destructive than the attack itself.

"Even you have it, John" Sherlock injected, interrupting John's trail of thoughts.

"Hm?"

"That look on your face! Don't deny it, you have been looking at me from the corner of your eyes ever since the...that day. " Sherlock clutched his cup, tea long forgotten and cold.

"I'm sorry".

"That's just it! Don't be sorry! I can manage, please. I said once not to make me a hero, well, don't make me a victim either." Cradling his cup, he looked down at his (John's) socks. "I just want everything to go back to normal."

Placing his tea-cup on the floor beside his chair, John sighted. "You are right, Sherlock".

His friend looked up, rather surprised.

"This is your decision. If you don't want to report it, don't report it. If you don't want to talk about it, we won't. I only hope when you say that you can manage, you mean without...you know...drugs".

Sherlock opened his mouth, but stopped, rather startled when he heard a car skid to a halt on the street below them. He stood up and made his way to the window, with John clambering over piles of news papers and books to follow him.

They both pressed their faces to the glass, looking down at a rather impressive black car which John only knew far too well.

"What the..."

"It's Mycroft." Sherlock stated, a distant cold look in his eyes. John knew that the two brothers were never quite thrilled to meet each other, but Sherlock just seemed annoyed most of the time, not...resentful.

The man in question clambered out of the car. From the driver's seat, John was surprised to see. He had never seen Mycroft drive before , usually he had his own chauffeur. John and Sherlock watched him lock the car and rather hurriedly making his way to the front door of 221 B Baker Street.

Hearing Mycroft climbing the stairs two steps at a time, John and Sherlock quickly went back to their chairs, Sherlock grabbing a book and John picking up his un-drunk tea, both of them wanting to not get caught looking out the window like children anticipating their dad's return from work.

The door slammed open, revealing a rather red faced Mycroft, with a crumpled suit and sans his customary umbrella. John's heart sank into his stomach when he saw that the older Holmes was clutching his phone. It didn't take a lot of deduction to guess what picture he had (evidently just) received.

"Really, Mycroft," Sherlock drawled from his chair "if this is the way you drive, maybe it's safer for the population of London that you stick with your driver. What, was this his day off?"

Shutting the door behind him, Mycroft made his way into the room. "Don't get funny with me, Sherlock. Why the _hell_ didn't you tell me?"

"Telling you what? Are you implying I have some secrets from you that all your little cameras and surveillance haven't picked up?"

"You know very well what I am talking about!" Mycroft snapped.

John stared at Mycroft, having never seen him loose control like that before. Usually he was the puppet master, making everybody run around while he watched, a bemused smile on his face and his umbrella at his side.

"It was not any of your business" Sherlock stated, turning a page on his book, an indifferent look on his face, but (as John noticed), slightly shaking fingers.

"Of course it is my business! Everything that concerns you is my business. How the hell do you think I reacted when I got this...this vile picture sent to me in the middle of a meeting?"

Slamming his book down at the floor, all pretence of indifference gone from his face, Sherlock rose up and met his brother's gaze.

"Then where the hell were you? With all your cameras and microphones and spies? Where were you when I got drugged and abducted? Is that all you are, _Mycroft_, a lot of talk and interfering and pretending to _care_, but when it comes down to it, you just aren't there! Is that why you are here now? You are not upset about _me, _you are upset that there are things happening that your clever surveillance didn't pick up!"

John watched as the two brothers stared at each other. The younger one balling his hands into fists at his side and the older twitching his right arm, clearly missing his umbrella.

He tried to find anything to say to relax the situation when Mycroft sighted and looked down at his shoes. "I am...so, _so_ sorry I wasn't there to help you, Sherlock. There must be some breach in my system and there will be hell to pay for the agents on work that day."

"I really thought you would come. At first, at least." Sherlock said, so low that John had to strain his ears to hear it. He rose from his chair, meaning to remove himself from the brothers rather personal conversation, but a gesture from Sherlock stopped him.

"And now?" Mycroft asked. "I can only forever regret that I couldn't prevent it, but I will do everything in my power to catch Moriarty and the other men".

"He doesn't want to go to the police and...well, Moriarty haven't exactly proved himself easy to catch" John carefully interjected.

Mycroft turned to John, who got startled by this change of appearance. Gone was the man with the half polite, half amused smile, clad in designer suits and being constantly teased by Sherlock for cheating on his diet.

John could understand now why Sherlock said that his brother _was_ the British Government and "the most dangerous man he would ever meet".

This was a man with a stony expression and cold eyes drilling into John.

"Well, then he haven't matched strength with me yet".

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><p><strong>Ok, now that we have all the feelings and reactions out of the way (only took 5 chapters), things will begin to happen. Mycroft is vengeful and will pull all the strings he can manage. Will Moriarty pay? Will Sherlock manage without delving into drugs? Where is John in all this?<strong>

**As for the record, I strongly recommend everybody who is assaulted to contact the police. Not everybody has a brother that _is_ the government.**

**I promise to update as soon as I can, but you know; Quality before quantity ;0) **

**And please review, so that I know there are still people out there waiting for and approving of my stuff (and maybe want to improve my stuff?)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**I most humbly bow down into the sawdust and beg you to accept my apologies for my verrry late update. The thing is, I only write when my heart is so in it that I almost see the characters as real people, and sometimes I have other things on my mind(palace).**

**I am also a workaholic and can compete with Mycroft any ol' day, so I only write when I can squeeze it in.**

**But happy news: I have already written the ending, so I will be adding the last chapter shortly.**

**Like always, please review and I apologize for any spelling mistakes. English is my third language and all that stuff.**

**Disclaimer: Get off your ass and produce more Sherlock Holmes episodes, Mr. Moffat. I am not you, and even though I can write about it, I want to see the "real deal" (I have a bet with my husband about Johns reaction when he discovers the not-dead Sherlock).**

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><p>The clock on the mantelpiece was happily ticking away towards evening, not caring at all that the steady rhythm that it's owner had previously found so soothing, was now making him want to pick the damn thing up and hurl it out the window. There was only one small lamp lit, one of those green desk lamps that one always saw on desktops belonging to important people in movies.<p>

Not that the man owning the item ever took time for such trivial past time activities, so the cliché of him owning such a lamp was lost on him. The light from the desk lamp was occasional followed by the light from passing cars outside the window, illuminating the back of the man sitting at the desk.

Mycroft stole one small glance at the clock and went back to shuffling through the stack of papers he had been busy with most of the day. Most people he interacted with had the impression that he was so important that he could organize the day as he saw fit, which was not the case. This resulting in having to work with government related issues during the day and Sherlock related issues during the evening and night. Almost as usual, with the exception that the Sherlock related issue had a more grim reason now than the ordinary " bail him out of jail for refusing to remove himself from a police investigation"-routine. Not that he had to do a lot of that lately, with Scotland Yard finally acknowledging his brother's talent and Lestrade actually putting up with his personality.

Glancing again at the clock on the mantle piece, he took a small paper clip from the top desk drawer, put it between the two papers he was reading, folded the whole stack together and put it neatly back in his drawer, to be dealt further with tomorrow. Pulling out his personal computer from the bottom desk drawer, he quickly entered his password and opened the file titled "Birthday list, distant relatives".

Mycroft had early on seen the need to distance his work to his private (most often Sherlock related) life, thus organizing a personal "government within the government". Anthea was one of those employed in that service, including his own surveillance personnel. He was even more careful with his private computer than his work-computer, which was famous for its security.

Of course Mycroft did not have a listing of the birthdays of distant relatives; all of his files had different "ordinary" names, as an extra security measurement. Double clicking on the file, he entered a second password and scrolled down to page number 4. Mycroft leaned back when Moriarty's file filled the screen, and rubbed his eyes.

The sick irrational feeling he had experienced when first confronting Sherlock had receded to a dull resignation. No matter how confident he had been in the beginning, Mycroft had gotten nowhere with Sherlock abduction.

The surveillance cameras had been tampered with; it did not even show his brother leaving the flat. Since it was not a danger night or a case, Mycroft had not stationed any of his personnel around Baker Street, there was only the normal security guard monitoring the cameras from afar. Since Sherlock had been drugged he did not know how long they had been driving to get to the warehouse (if that's what it was) and he was unconscious on the way back. Mycroft even had people examining the coffee cup Sherlock lost in that alleyway. It resulted in nothing but coffee, meaning Sherlock had gotten the drug in him from another source.

Whirling the chair around so he sat facing the window, Mycroft took in his own reflection. Old. He looked old. Old and tired, having used the last few days working non-stop, or more non-stop than usual. And despite popular beliefs (some of them encouraged by himself), he did care about his brother. He had not always done so, resulting in what John called the "sibling rivalry", but he had tried to make up for it the only way he could, by trying to keep Sherlock safe. Which had failed.

Rubbing his eyes again, an idea resurfaced in his mind. He had tried to suppress it early on, determined that it should be the last thing to try when everything else failed. Well, everything else had failed, the investigation had been fruitless.

To catch his brother's assaulter, he would have to bait out John Watson. And hopefully not breaking his brother's heart in the aid of healing it.

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><p>"Absolutely not."<p>

"Come now, Sherlock, be reasonable".

"I am the one being reasonable. Now get out of my flat".

" I am not moving until you see the sense in it. I have tried, Sherlock, but Moriarty has so far proved himself too careful. There is nothing on the surveillance, no trace in the coffee, one might even think that the incident never happened! The only proof we have is the picture and your memory, which frankly does us no good if you cannot give me anything more than " I think we were in a warehouse". Maybe if you had taken some samples of yourself afterwards instead of rushing to the shower -"

Sherlock stood up abruptly, a mix of shock and fury on his face. Mycroft was sure his brother saw the logic in his argument but instantly regretted his tactless way of voicing it, and took a step back.

"Is that what you would do, _brother_? Walking home, cool as anything, taking all the various DNA samples required and sit down with a nice cup of tea? What the hell do you know of the situation? Does it help if I agree that I should have taken samples, but couldn't do it, didn't think about it?"

Mycroft did not meet his brother's eye, but took Sherlock's loss of control as an opportunity. "I am sorry, brother, I should not have said it like that. But back to the issue, John is the only way of catching Moriarty. No, listen to me. He will have people following him wherever he goes, tracing devices on his person, both clothes and skin, he will be as safe as can be. And then we will finally catch Moriarty. Is that not what you have wanted these past months since the incident with his games and the pool? And now, with you being...well, you know..."

Sherlock dropped his eyes towards the floorboards and put his slender arms around his torso. After a while, he spoke.

"This is...difficult for me. I admit that London will be a far safer place without Moriarty, but I said from the beginning that I don't want to make my ...abduction official. And I refuse to put John in the same situation".

Mycroft smiled begrudgingly and put a hesitant hand on his brother's shoulder. "Though I am cross with you for not seeing sense, I am proud of you as well. Who would have thought you would ever care about someone so much that you would rather leave a case open than put them in harms way? But as I said, John won't be in any real danger. And as for the rest...what if I promise that Moriarty will not go on public trial?"

Sherlock looked up from his chair, which he had returned to. "What do you mean, not go on trial? If he get caught he has to be given over to the police and-"

Mycroft gave a meaningful look to his brother. " I mean, what if he don't go through the legal justice system and is sentenced to prison? What if he is just...taken care of ..?"

There was a very silent pause.

Sherlock shook his head. "Either way, I cannot ask John to do that for me. It was always a risk that those I am social with would be in danger, just because they are acquainted with me, but to deliberately put John, my best, my only friend out as bait for that psychopath...No. I will not allow it to happen."

"And what if I say yes"?

Both brothers whirled around to face the door. John stood in the doorway, his briefcase in one hand and a grocery bag in the other.

"John-"

The man stepped forward. "No, you will listen to me. I thought we had already agreed on this. I told you to continue to take on cases, knowing full well Moriarty's threat. Why not be one step ahead on him for once and take advantage of his threat, instead of me being abducted some other time, unprotected?"

Mycroft looked from one man to the other. One had a determined, almost military look about him, the other; hesitant, lips starting forming words and then regretting them.

Turning towards his brother's flatmate, Mycroft spoke carefully." John, I will do everything in my power to rescue you quickly, but I cannot guarantee you will not be hurt at all before we get there. Just stay calm and don't give them any reason to hit you. Do I have your fullest consent to go through with this?"

Taking a deep breath and straightening his back, John looked into his flatmate's eyes as he replied.

"Yes".

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><p><strong>Woho, we are near the ending! Surveillance undercover-team Extraordinaire ftw!<strong>

**Please keep reviewing!**


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